I moved into my new place this week.
It’s a little surreal. I can’t remember the last time I moved somewhere with such an indefinance. Maybe never. Like I’m moving and I’m going to be there and that’s that.
It’s going to be HOME.
It’s different things to different people. I still call my house in Colorado “home”, but I haven’t lived there for years. And then of course, there’s KU, which will always be home on some level. And then there’s where I am in the present. And there’s the feeling I just get from being with certain people. Like you’re so comfortable it’s like the relationship version of grey sweatpants on your couch on Saturday. And then there’s memories. Memories can be home too. You can live in the past so long, that the present is a stranger and the future is like window shopping for something you can’t afford and you don’t really want anyway.
For me, home is mobile experience. i don’t really like the indefinance of the word. So I like to think of it as a moveable experience.
Sometimes, when I watch destination commercials, I get restless. Like what am I doing? I need to be living in Tahiti barefoot and brown as a surf instructing mermaid with just enough clothing on to be in public soaking up sun until I become just a beam of light and float into the atmosphere.
And I need to be in France, talking in a silky accent as I casually stroll through Jardin des Tuileries eating nutella in a subtle sophistication that you can’t really get from your tongue just sucking a spoon.
And I need to be New York! Where writers and artists flock like directionally challenged birds flying south for the winter.
Despite my gypsy attitude toward being home, I still occasionally feel like I play it safe. Like I’m wasting time. Like there’s all these things I need to be doing and here I am just weekend after weekend and day after day, not getting after it.
Because who needs home when I have all this shit to do in these destinations that I’ve never been to? Now’s not the time to settle! I can’t settle. I’m scared of settling.
I feel like I have this pressure on me. I need to hurry up and write scripts and books and gather a following and start chasing down some dream that I haven’t even nailed down the logistics of yet. And I get nervous when I see people my age who are doing amazing things with their lives, who are already going after all the things they want to do. Especially because for me, sometimes I find victory in a day that I successfully paint my nails and don’t spill down the front of my shirt and make it through a twenty-minute run without tripping.
I’m scared I sound like a broken record. Like look at me! Cute little naive midwestern girl who wants to write moves to California and eats oatmeal and makes it through each day with a cute little moral of story tied in a bow. I’m restless with my own image.
I sit down to write and I think, I’ve said this before. I’m saying the same thing I’ve always said. I’m becoming irrelevant. And then I let my head hit the key board and type gibberish. I think about posting it because wouldn’t that be funny? You all go to read my blog and its all just letters and numbers and symbols and nothing makes sense and you’re like Meg what’s going on over there? And I’m like Guys! It’s a metaphor for my life. And there’s this awkward internet pause and then I laugh and type a frog emoticon. Ribbit.
Because that’s what I feel like sometimes. Like I’m just going around in little caffeine induced circles, begging everyone to follow their dreams and get off their couches and move on from their exes and live on the edge and dammit, don’t you know you’re never fully dressed without a smile?
Do you get sick of hearing it? Have you stopped believing me? Do you ever actually listen?
I like telling people that my blog is like a mini-chick flick. A little chick-flick post. Where there’s a cute little lead-in narration and then conflict and then in the end I live happily ever after. I like my life to follow that formula. Don’t we all?
But people who believe in chick-flicks are petty and delusional right? Those girls who want Ryan Gosling from the Notebook, are a straight-up squirrel related version of nuts. You roll your eyes at them and think, good luck sweet heart. Hollywood makes a fortune off your silly little fantasies.
So do I really want my writing to be something synonymous with the ridiculous antics twinkle town boxes up and sells for a few months at 20.99 before immediately becoming irrelevant because another one (following the same exact formula) surfaces?
I don’t know.
I really don’t.
I don’t want to be irrelevant. I don’t want people to read what I have to say and think it’s a load of superficial unrealistic crap and then immediately cast it aside and forget it. I don’t want to keep saying the same thing and never doing it. I want to resonate! I want you to think about me in the middle of the night. I want you to think about my words for the next several days. I want to strike some chord deep down inside of you that inspires you to act. That’s the kind of writing I aspire to create. I’m moved by other words. I want you to be moved by mine.
I don’t want you to settle down. I want you to have this same lightning bolt up your ass that makes you scared to get stuck. That makes you scared of rolling over 10 years from now in the same spot because you were too scared to move. I want you to stop watching reality tv and get involved in your own reality. I’m scared that you’re not. I’m scared that I’m not.
Sometimes, I go through an entire day and I do nothing that scares me! How can I possibly live life on the edge if I sit at a desk all day? One time, I came home from work and spent the entire night trying to figure out how to do a handstand. It was terrifying. And I injured myself several times. And I wasn’t successful. But I bet no one else did that! And so isn’t that enough? I’m living life on the edge.. right? I’m being different.
It’s like this: watch?v=MBopFmu3yAg
And that’s it.
On the nose.
I’m scared of being unoriginal and cliche and saying the same thing over and over again. And I feel super lame. And I need to be kind of weird for a few minutes so I can be original again.
Or do something really crazy to prove I still have it. Like moving to Tahiti or France or New York. I get restless with normalcy. I get restless with averageness. I need to pick up a weird hobby. Like harmonica playing. Or insisting on bringing back quilts. Or date a guy with a mustache.
You ever feel like that? Because I do. All the time. And I can’t make myself write when I feel like my words are some refabrication of something I’ve said before. Like I’m plagiarizing myself.
So like I said before.. I moved into my new place this week. And it’s different. I feel home. In a different way. I feel a little less restless. Because there’s lots of room to be weird in a place you’ve never lived before. There’s bare walls and no furniture and lots of space for handstands. There’s room for stories. There’s space for adventure. And so that pressure to do things before my internal ticking clock runs out subsides for now. Tahiti and France and New York and my book can momentarily wait.
And at least for a little bit,
I give us all permission to stop chasing down the need to be someone and do things and stand on mountain tops and scream.
and for once just enjoy that feeling of finally just being home,
..Whatever that means to you.